by Paul Adam
Max nodded. ‘Penhall and Clark had his father murdered. He’s going to want them punished for that.’
‘But, realistically, can he do anything?’
‘He’s a police officer. He can do things that we can’t. He has colleagues who can help him. Maybe together they can deal with Penhall and Clark.’
‘His father was murdered, Max. What if all we’re doing is putting him in danger too?’
‘He knows that. It’s his choice. But he’s forewarned now. He’ll be much more careful than his dad was.’
Richardson came back to the table with a cappuccino. He took a sip and wiped the froth off his moustache with the edge of his forefinger.
‘That’s an unbelievable story,’ he said. ‘But I believe you. Why would you make something like that up? What I want to know is why you’ve come to me now? Why didn’t you tell me just after my dad died?’
‘Because, as I said, I had no evidence that your dad’s death wasn’t an accident,’ Max replied. ‘Never mind proof. You’d have thought I was crazy. But I do have evidence relating to the bomb in our house. That’s why I asked to meet you. To see if you could help us.’
Max glanced around the café. Chris, Rusty and Zip were slouched in their seats, drinking coffee and eating Danish pastries. They appeared relaxed, half asleep, but Max knew that was a carefully cultivated illusion. Rusty and Zip’s eyes never left the street outside, watching every pedestrian, every car that passed by. And Chris was monitoring the inside of the café with equal vigilance.
Max took a DVD out of the carrier bag on his lap, a copy that Lucas Fisher had made of the CCTV tape Max had saved from the fire. He handed it to the detective.
‘We’ve got CCTV cameras in the house. Or we had before the fire. Some friends installed them to protect me and Consuela.’
‘The friends at the table by the door?’ Richardson said.
Max was surprised. ‘How did you know?’
‘I’m a copper. I keep my eyes open. I’ve seen the way they’ve been checking out the customers, watching over you.’
‘The cameras were recording when a man broke into the house and planted the bomb in the kitchen. He wasn’t aware of them and didn’t cover his face. This DVD shows it all: what he looks like, what he did. Maybe you can use it to identify him.’
The detective slipped the disc into his jacket pocket. ‘This is the original?’
‘A copy. The original is in a safe place.’
‘It survived the fire?’
‘I grabbed it before I got out of the house.’
Richardson gave a nod of respect. ‘That was very quick thinking, considering the pressure you must have been under. You know, Max, I’m beginning to see why these guys haven’t managed to bump you off yet.’
Max smiled ruefully. ‘Don’t speak too soon.’
They were back in Rusty’s apartment an hour later when Max’s mobile rang.
He didn’t respond immediately. Only a few people had his number, all of them friends or acquaintances he could trust. But he was wary of talking on the phone. You never knew who might be listening in. Finally, the insistent ring-tone got too much for him. He pulled out the phone, saw the caller’s name, and answered.
‘Sheldon, hi,’ he said.
‘Hi, kid,’ Mackenzie said. ‘San Francisco. It’s all fixed.’
Max sat up, suddenly energized by the news. ‘That was quick.’
‘You have to strike while the iron’s hot. Your Tower Bridge stunt was big news in America, got huge ratings. The promoter over there, a guy named Herb Feinstein, is desperate to get you. So are the mayor of San Francisco – he’s running for re-election in a few months time and thinks it will help his chances – and the tourist board. They’ve pulled out all the stops and are going to close the northbound carriageway of the Golden Gate Bridge for you next Sunday night.’
‘They want me to do it at night?’ Max said, a little uncertainly.
‘It has to be night, when there’s less traffic using the bridge. It’ll be terrific, kid, even better than Tower Bridge. Think of the atmosphere. The bridge and the bay in darkness, your wooden crate floodlit as it’s lowered down into the water. It’s going to be a big event. I’ll let you know your full timetable when I get the details from Feinstein, OK?’
‘Yes, yes, I suppose so,’ Max said, taken aback by how rapidly it had all been arranged.
‘I’ll sort out air tickets for you and Consuela. You get your equipment together and we’ll get it flown out as soon as possible. I’m really excited, kid. I told you that you were going to have a big international career. This is just the start. I’ll keep you posted. Oh, and Max – it’s a big fee, you know.’ He named a figure that Max could barely believe and then breezily finished with, ‘Bye for now.’
The promoter hung up. Max stared at his phone for a time. Talking to Sheldon Mackenzie always left him feeling slightly breathless, but there was something infectious about the promoter’s electrifying enthusiasm. Max was excited too, now. Not just about performing in the United States, but about going to San Francisco – about getting away from Britain and Rupert Penhall and, most importantly, embarking on the next stage of his search for his father.
NINE
THE FOLLOWING COUPLE of days were very busy for Max and Consuela, ordering all the equipment they needed for the stunt off the Golden Gate Bridge, then arranging for it to be flown to San Francisco. When all that was completed, there was one other important thing that Max had to do before he left the country: visit his mother in prison.
Rusty and Zip weren’t keen on the idea. The flat was a safe haven; no one knew they were holed up there. So long as they stayed put they weren’t in any danger. Even going out to the local shops or to places they’d never visited before – like the café in Victoria – were relatively risk-free. It was highly unlikely that Penhall’s men would pick them up by chance in a city as big as London. But Levington prison, where Max’s mum was being held, was more of a problem. Max went there regularly – and Penhall would know that. All he had to do was put a team of watchers near the prison and wait for Max to show up.
Max was aware of the danger, but considered it a risk worth taking. He wanted to see his mother before he went to America. And just as importantly, he knew his mother would want to see him. Locked away in a small cell, with a further eighteen years of prison ahead of her, Max’s visits were a lifeline for Helen Cassidy. They were just about the only thing that kept her going. For her sake, if nothing else, Max insisted on going to see her. He didn’t know how long it would be before he got the opportunity again. In theory, he was going to San Francisco for only a few days, but Max had a premonition that it might be longer. Or that he might not come back at all. That wasn’t something he wanted to consider, but in a dark corner of his brain was festering the fear that, if something went wrong, this might well be the last time he saw his mother.
Zip drove the Audi as usual, Rusty in the passenger seat next to him, Max and Consuela in the back. Chris followed behind in the Nissan. They went north through Leyton and Wanstead, then took the M11, turning off near Saffron Walden and heading east across Suffolk.
Levington prison was in the middle of open countryside, a grim concrete complex surrounded by a high wall and a fence topped with razor wire. Zip drove into the car park outside the perimeter of the prison and went slowly around it, checking every car for anything suspicious, particularly anyone who looked like part of a surveillance team. But the cars were all empty, the occupants presumably inside the prison visiting friends or relatives.
Max and Consuela went in alone and sat at the small table in the visiting room until Helen was brought out from her cell by a prison officer. Max gave her a long hug, then Helen embraced Consuela.
‘It’s good to see you both,’ she said, sitting down at the table with them. She smiled at Max. ‘I saw your Tower Bridge stunt on the television. You were brilliant. I was so proud of you. The other women thought it was terrific too. They said
I should get you to break us all out of here – a mass escape.’
She chuckled. Max felt a warm glow inside him. That was the first time in all his visits that he’d heard his mother laugh. Her spirits seemed to be higher than usual today. She was looking better too. Her face was less gaunt. There was some colour in her cheeks, her eyes had lost some of their habitual sadness.
‘I don’t need to break you out, Mum,’ Max said. ‘Though I’ve often thought about it. I’m going to get you out legally, just as soon as I’ve found Dad.’
Helen took his hand and squeezed it. ‘Have you managed to track down this elusive Dr Halstead yet?’
Max shook his head. ‘But I’m going to San Francisco to try and find him. I’m repeating my Tower Bridge stunt off the Golden Gate Bridge.’
Helen gazed at him with concern. ‘That’s a very high bridge, Max. And the currents beneath it are notoriously dangerous. Are you sure that’s a good idea?’
‘It’s all arranged. I know what I’m doing, Mum. You don’t have to worry about me.’
‘Yes, I do,’ Helen replied. ‘I’m your mum. I worry about you all the time.’
‘He’ll be fine,’ Consuela said to Helen. ‘I’ll be with him. I’ll make sure he’s careful.’
Helen smiled at her. ‘I know you will. I know how well you’re looking after him. I’m really grateful for everything you do, Consuela.’
‘You’ll be back home looking after him again very soon,’ Consuela said.
‘Will I?’ Helen’s face clouded for a moment. ‘I hope so. But I can’t see when.’
‘It won’t be long,’ Max said, trying to sound upbeat. He was always selective about what he told his mother, leaving out things that he knew would upset her. He’d visited her a couple of times since his return from Borneo, but he’d not mentioned Julius Clark’s attempts to kill him. That would have distressed her so much that her already fragile health would have been undermined. But he’d told her that he’d found evidence his father had been in Borneo just before him. That had lifted her spirits enormously. What better news could there be than finding out for certain that her husband was alive?
‘Just hang on a bit longer,’ Max said. ‘I’m going to find Dad in San Francisco and then get you out of here. I can feel it in my guts.’
He glanced at Consuela and she gave a discreet nod. They’d discussed this in the car on the way up to Suffolk. Helen couldn’t be protected from everything bad. It would be a shock to her, but she had to be told about the fire. She was still the owner of the house and the insurance company wouldn’t process any claim without her consent.
‘Helen,’ Consuela said softly, ‘I want you to prepare yourself for some bad news.’
‘Bad news?’ Helen gave her an anxious look. ‘What do you mean? Tell me.’
Max gripped her hands in his own. ‘It’s about the house, Mum.’
‘The house?’
‘There was a fire,’ Consuela said. ‘The house was badly damaged.’
She described what had happened, omitting any mention of a bomb or CCTV cameras, and Helen turned pale, pulling her hands away from Max and covering her mouth.
‘Oh, my God!’ she exclaimed. ‘You were inside it at the time?’
‘Fortunately not. The house was empty.’
‘But what caused it?’
‘We don’t know. It may have been a gas leak,’ Max said.
‘And the contents? Was anything saved?’
‘We don’t know for certain yet. But the kitchen, sitting room and dining room were gutted. The other rooms weren’t so badly damaged. It’s possible we can salvage some of the contents.’
Helen’s face crumpled and her eyes filled with tears. Max watched her, feeling his own eyes moisten. He knew how much the house meant to her. She and his dad had moved into it shortly after they were married. Her memories of it would be as vivid and happy as his, the loss just as painful.
‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ Max said.
The tears started to pour down his mother’s cheeks. There was no sound – no sobs or sniffs. Helen was holding them in, trying not to draw attention to herself in the crowded visiting room. Max stood up and went round to the other side of the table, bending down and putting his arms around his mum’s shoulders to comfort her. Heads turned, people were starting to notice and whisper among themselves, but Max didn’t care. He just wanted to make his mum feel better.
‘We can repair the house,’ he said. ‘Make it the way it was. It’s just a few bits of furniture and carpet that have been lost. Nothing really important.’
An officious prison officer came striding across the room and told Max to sit back down. They were creating a disturbance. Max glared at the woman, but returned to his seat. Consuela handed Helen some tissues and she wiped her eyes.
‘One minute!’ the prison officer called out, and the visitors began to make their farewells.
‘We had to tell you,’ Max said to his mother. ‘But don’t let it get you down. There are plenty of things to be up about.’
‘Are there?’ Helen said bleakly.
‘No one was killed or injured in the fire. We know Dad’s alive. I’m going to San Francisco to look for him. Think about that while I’m gone. The next time I visit you, it will be to get you out.’
Helen smiled at him through her tears. ‘If anyone can do that, it’s you, Max. Good luck, and look after yourself.’
‘I will.’
Max stood up again and went round the table. Helen got to her feet and they hugged each other tightly, clinging on desperately until the prison officer broke them apart and led Helen back to the cells.
* * *
For a very wealthy man, Julius Clark was remarkably uninterested in money. He had long ago lost track of how much he was worth. The financial press estimated his personal fortune at somewhere between ten and twenty billion US dollars, depending on which journalist was writing the article, but Clark himself couldn’t have put an exact figure on it. He simply didn’t know – and didn’t care – how much money he had. After the first few hundred million, what did it really matter?
He possessed all the traditional trappings of a billionaire – a private jet, a massive yacht, luxurious houses scattered all over the globe – but he took no real pleasure in any of them. To him, they were just places in which to do business. It was business, and the power that came with it, that really interested him. It was doing deals that he enjoyed – like a market trader buying and selling, only on a vastly bigger scale. Finding new oil deposits to extract, new mineral sources to mine, new land to acquire and exploit. That was what motivated him, what drove his insatiable ambition.
His office in the City of London, just down the road from the Bank of England, was pretty much the same as all his offices around the world. It had a desk and swivel chair, a computer and a phone and little more. What else did he need? Yes, there was some expensive art on the walls and a thick carpet on the floor, but Clark barely noticed them. They’d been installed by an interior designer, hired to create an environment that would impress others, that would emphasize to them what a formidably successful businessman he was. Clark knew that counted for a lot in the international circles in which he moved. Politicians, in particular, loved to wallow in other people’s wealth. They liked being entertained on his yacht and at his beachfront house in the Bahamas, they liked eating his caviar and drinking his champagne. And that suited Clark just fine. He needed politicians to approve his business ventures, to allow him to drill and quarry and chop down trees wherever he fancied. And he needed other people lower down in government – corrupt public servants – to help him, to do his bidding.
People like Rupert Penhall.
Penhall was impressed by Clark’s wealth. He noticed his money and cared about it, even though Clark himself didn’t. He was overawed by the tycoon – and frightened of him, too.
The billionaire’s eyes were fixed on him now – pale blue eyes that were as cold and hostile as the polar icecaps. Penhall
found them unsettling. They seemed to bore into him, seeking out his weaknesses and then exploiting them.
‘You missed a perfect opportunity, Rupert,’ Clark said witheringly. ‘You could have killed both Max Cassidy and Chris Moncrieffe, but you failed.’
Penhall squirmed uncomfortably in his chair and looked away. Through the windows, he could see the famous glass-walled Gherkin office block and, further down the Thames, the towers of Canary Wharf. At another time, he might have enjoyed the view, but not today. He was too nervous, too aware of Clark’s simmering anger.
‘Yes, I’m sorry about that,’ he said feebly.
‘Sorry? Is that all you can say?’
Penhall held out his arms in a helpless gesture. ‘It was a mistake, I admit that. We wanted to make sure of getting them both, but we waited a fraction too long. It gave them time to get out.’
‘They knew about the bomb?’
‘I don’t know. Of course, if you’d dealt with them in Borneo, then—’
Penhall saw Clark’s mouth tighten and stopped himself in mid sentence, realizing that it was a mistake to remind the billionaire that Max had escaped assassination before, when Clark had had him at his mercy.
‘We’re not talking about Borneo,’ Clark said angrily. ‘We’re talking about London. Have you found them yet?’
‘No. They’ve gone to ground somewhere. But it won’t be for long. Max and Consuela Navarra are booked on a flight to San Francisco on Friday.’
Clark raised an eyebrow. ‘For what purpose?’
‘Max is doing a stunt off the Golden Gate Bridge. The same one he did in London, off Tower Bridge.’
‘Is he now? The one when he’s nailed inside a wooden crate and lowered into the water?’
‘I believe so, yes. We can pick them up at Heathrow airport on some pretext, then deal with them.’
Clark turned his head to stare at one of the paintings on the office wall – a Jackson Pollock that was just random splashes of paint on a huge canvas, but had cost him several million pounds. The light reflected off the lenses of his spectacles, so Penhall couldn’t see his eyes. Clark thought for a time, then turned back.
